Extinction End (Extinction Cycle Book 5)

by Nicholas Sansbury Smith

  Believe it, Rachel. And do something to fucking stop it. You can’t lose control of your ship.

  Reaching out, she clicked on the monitors. Davis already knew that Kramer had the most loyal soldiers under her umbrella out of any high-ranking officer left on the GW, but seeing them taking over the ship took her breath away.

  Squads of soldiers in black armor patrolled nearly every deck. They herded Marines away with hands bound. Davis’s gaze flitted from screen to screen, pausing on the mess hall. Two Marines were face down on the ground, their backs were peppered with blooming bullet wounds.

  “No.” Davis said, tears welling in her eyes.

  The sight of dead Marines made her heart hurt. She had to do something. But what could she do against Kramer’s loyal army?

  There had never been so much at risk. Davis knew exactly what Kramer was after, and if she got those codes, she would rain nuclear fire down on the United States, destroying everything they were fighting for.

  Davis checked the monitors for an escape route. She noted the empty passages, then ran back into the corridor. As she ran, questions swirled in her mind. How could Kramer be so fucking blind? Did she really thing she was going to save them with the nukes? Then again, Colonel Gibson, Colonel Wood and General Kennor had shared the same grand delusions of saving the world. Gibson had aimed to create a super soldier to keep American soldiers off foreign battlefields. Kennor had fought the only way he’d ever known—with bombs and boots instead of science. And Wood? He’d just been fucking insane.

  She took a right at the next bulkhead, lost in her thoughts, but focused on her mental map of the ship. All men and women were created equal in Davis’s book, but some chose a path that made them less human. She would be damned if she let anything happen to the people who were really trying to save the human race. She was going to save President Ringgold and Vice President Johnson, even if she died in the attempt.

  “You two clear that passage,” someone said up ahead.

  A dozen pairs of boots pounded the deck as soldiers searched the ship for her. Davis ducked through an open hatch and hid behind a bunk in an empty cabin. She slowly pulled the magazine from her M9 to check the rounds. Only five, plus one in the chamber.

  It wasn’t much against well-trained men in armor with shotguns and M4s.

  The sound of stomping boots faded away from her position, but the coast wasn’t clear yet. A voice echoed down the passage, “This shit is cray, man. Is Kramer really going to launch those missiles?”

  “She ain’t playin’, Rice,” came a second, softer voice. “But maybe it’s the only way.”

  “I don’t like it. There have to be survivors out there, right?”

  The rap of footfalls resumed in her direction. Davis slowly slid the magazine back into the gun and raised it toward the hatch leading into the cabin. The idea of killing another human sent a chill up her spine. Killing Variants was easy, but humans were a precious commodity, and these men were just following orders because they were too frightened to do anything else.

  Maybe they’ll pass me by.

  Please pass me by.

  The man with a kind voice spoke again. “Rice, you take the cabins to the left, I’ll get the right.”

  “You got it, Mark.”

  Davis tensed.

  A shadow moved down the corridor outside the open hatch. She crouched down behind the bunk, her right thigh burning like someone was driving a knife into it.

  Don’t come in here, please.

  She could hear the two soldiers clearing the rooms. Hatches opened and clicked shut. Bunks slid across the deck, the metal scraping as they searched.

  Davis made a decision. She holstered her weapon as Mark’s shadow stopped outside her door. Shooting him wasn’t going to do anything but reveal her location.

  A man no older than twenty stepped into the glow of the light inside the cabin. Mark wasn’t wearing the same type of helmet Kramer’s guards had worn in the CIC. Seeing his youthful brown eyes made what she had to do even more difficult. They widened as she bolted around the side of the bed. In three swift motions, she slapped his M4 aside, grabbed his right arm, and wrapped her left arm around his neck. He let out a whimper as she dragged him into the cabin with her.

  She had him in a chokehold, but his neck was so thick she could hardly get her arm around it. He kicked and squirmed in her grip as she pushed with her other hand on a pressure point at the back of his neck.

  Go to sleep, dammit.

  Mark let out a whimper, but simply would not give up. He elbowed, kicked, and squirmed in her grip. They collapsed to the floor, Davis on her back, the man’s weight on top of her. She wrapped her legs around his and tightened her arm around his neck. He brought his helmet back on her head, smashing her in the nose.

  The young man twisted his right hand free of her grip and reached for his pistol. By the time her vision cleared, he had un-holstered the weapon. Wheezing for air, he struggled to point the gun at her head.

  She wasn’t afraid to die, but if he killed her, there would be no one left to save the ship and stop Kramer from turning the major cities of the United States into so many radioactive craters.

  Her training took over, and her body reacted on instinct to the threat. She reached down and grabbed the knife from his belt, unsheathed it, and jammed it into the soft flesh below his Adam’s apple.

  There was a sickening crunch, then a gurgling sound as he tried to scream.

  Even as the blade pierced his skin, Davis wished she could take it back. His eyes turned desperate and pleading, and she almost pulled the knife out to put pressure on the wound and try to stop the bleeding. But it was already too late. A quick death was the only mercy she could show him now, and she swiftly drew the knife across his throat, severing his jugular vein. He bled out in seconds, and she held him as the life left his body.

  Davis knew that if she lived through the day, this moment would haunt her. For now, she sealed it away in the vault where she stored the rest of her most painful memories.

  She loosened her grip around his neck with her left arm, but left the blade inside. Then she slid out from under him, grabbed his M4, and raised it at the hatch from her back. The second soldier, the man she’d heard referred to as Rice, strode up right into her line of fire.

  His eyes flitted to Davis’s gun, then to Mark’s motionless body.

  “Don’t,” Davis whispered.

  Rice lowered his rifle.

  Davis pushed herself up with the gun still on him, then herded him into the cabin. He bent down to help his friend, but they both knew there wasn’t anything that could be done. Rice looked up, his eyes pleading for mercy.

  Davis wondered if he’d shown any of the dead Marines on board the same courtesy. Killing Mark had been necessary, but she couldn’t kill Rice in cold blood.

  She extended mercy to the man with a butt of her rifle to his face. Rice fell to his back, unconscious. She reached down, grabbed his extra magazines and radio, then proceeded back into the passage.

  Her heart pumped adrenaline through her like a river fueled by a broken dam. She had lost a part of herself back in that cabin that she would never get back, but she’d done what had to be done.

  Now she needed to find help.

  But where?

  Think Rachel, think.

  She shouldered her M4 and continued down the next passage at a crouch. She could try to make it to the flight deck to free some Marines, but she would have to get past a dozen or more of Kramer’s men. Those were impossible odds. Going deeper into the ship would take her to an infirmary full of civilians and injured soldiers.

  Injured, but still soldiers.

  There were men and women in there who could still fight.

  Davis slowed to a halt outside the next ladder. She slung the M4 over her back, grabbed the handle with one hand, and raised her M9 with the other. Pulling the hatch open, she slipped inside with her gun raised. She swept the weapon over an empty ladder. Gritting her te
eth, she loped down the ladder and paused at the open hatch.

  When she peeked outside, she saw only one of Kramer’s guards. That she could deal with. Leaving them guarded by a single sentry would be the move that took Kramer down.

  “Rice and Mark were wounded,” Davis called out. “I need assistance back here.” Then she ducked back inside the ladder. With her back to the bulkhead, she waited.

  Kramer’s soldier strode inside with his gun lowered. Pistol-whipping him in the face was the easiest thing Davis had done all evening. The man slumped to the floor, and she relieved him of his M4 and M9.

  Davis hurried into the passage outside the infirmary. She slung the second M4 over her back and drew in a deep breath as she prepared to enter the room. Coughing and a few hushed voices could be heard on the other side of the open hatch.

  She raised both M9s, exhaled, and whispered, “You can do this, Rachel.”

  Bursting into the room, she swept the two pistols from side to side, prepared to shoot any of Kramer’s men if she had to. But there were no men in black armor inside, only the frightened faces of injured soldiers, civilians, and medical staff staring back at her.

  “What’s going on?” someone said.

  “We heard gunfire,” said another.

  Davis holstered one of her M9s as she jogged across the room. “Who can fight?”

  Several raised voices replied with more questions.

  “Fight what?” a man yelled.

  A nurse gasped. “What’s happening? Are there Variants on board?”

  Davis ignored them and continued through the room at a clip. She stopped at the foot of Staff Sergeant Jay Chow’s bed. He swung his bandaged legs over the side and stepped onto the cold floor, his eyes locking with hers. She handed him her extra M9, then turned to face the rest of the room.

  In her most commanding voice, Davis said, “There has been a mutiny. The GW has been taken over by Lieutenant Colonel Marsha Kramer. And I need your help to take it back.”

  -26-

  Beckham unfastened the clasps on his chest plate and handed the piece to Rico. “Don’t protest, just take it. We don’t have much time.”

  “Thank you,” Rico said. Her eyes were still wide from the shock of being hit, but Beckham could see she was going to be fine. She positioned the plate over the front of her fatigues and clasped the ends. It looked a bit loose on her, but it would have to do.

  Team Ghost was moving two minutes after the final juvenile corpse hit the ground. This time Beckham took point. They were lucky to have only lost Tank, but luck was a relative term in the apocalypse.

  The automatic timer on the dirty bomb was destroyed. Someone was going to have to stay behind to set it off.

  Beckham tried not to think about that. Their mission hadn’t changed, and they were almost to the blast doors. A thousand more juveniles were prowling the miles of tunnels that stretched beneath the Capitol complex.

  The closer he got, the more the slow burn ate him. Sweat bled down his forehead as he considered their options. If no one volunteered to stay behind, they would have to draw straws. Either way, Horn was definitely out. Beckham wouldn’t let him stay behind no matter how hard he pushed back. Not a chance. Apollo was trained to follow over a hundred commands, but none of those included setting off an RDD. Not that Beckham would let the dog do it anyway. That left Beckham, Garcia, Rico, and Fitz.

  Everyone was likely thinking the same thing as they jogged down the final tunnel and eyed the double set of rusted blast doors. Their mission was almost complete, but one way or another, they wouldn’t all be going home. They’d known that when they signed on, and each of them had their own reasons being there. Horn wanted a better world for his daughters, Beckham wanted to give Kate and their unborn child a chance at life, Fitz wanted to make up for what he considered his sins, Garcia wanted revenge, and Rico? Beckham wasn’t exactly sure what drove her. She seemed a bit crazy, if he was honest. It was endearing, but he still wasn’t going to ask her to volunteer to kill herself.

  The ten foot high doors loomed above Team Ghost—a gateway that led to a fortress of monsters. Beckham balled his hand into a fist, stopping just outside. Everyone huddled around him like a football team about to discuss a play. He flipped up his face guard and looked at his friends in turn. “Someone is going to have to stay behind to manually detonate Gibson.”

  Anxious eyes stared back at him. No one immediately volunteered, but no one resisted, either. Sweat dripped off foreheads; Beckham could hear the plops. He could hear everything: his thumping heart, the team’s stifled breathing, and the snap of joints from juveniles on the other side of the doors.

  “I’ll do it.”

  Beckham hardly recognized the voice at first.

  It was his.

  Before Building 8, he’d never lost a man. Now he had a vest pocket full of dog tags. He was going to be damned if he let anyone else do this.

  “No,” Garcia said. “I’ll do it.”

  Helmets roved in the Marine’s direction, but he kept his gaze on Beckham.

  “You can still have what I lost, brother. You and that doctor, you got a future together. I’m ready to be with my family again. I’ve done some bad shit in my day, but I have faith. I’ll be seeing them again soon.”

  Beckham narrowed his eyes. Garcia was a deeply religious man, and Beckham respected that. But just because he believed in an afterlife didn’t mean the burden was his to carry alone.

  “It’s okay,” Garcia reassured everyone. “I want to do this. For my men, my family, and my country.” Horn exchanged a glance with Beckham, but the big man’s face was unreadable.

  The screech of talons skittering across the floor drew everyone’s attention. Fitz jerked his MK11 toward the door to stand guard, but didn’t say a word. This decision was on Beckham.

  He reluctantly nodded at Horn to give Garcia the bomb. He couldn’t deny the relief he felt, but there was a deep shame that went along with it. Letting Garcia do this was one of the most difficult decisions of his life. It all went down in a matter of seconds, but it felt like an eternity. Horn handed Garcia the bag and patted him on the helmet as he heaved it onto his shoulders.

  “You’re sure?” Beckham asked.

  Garcia replied by making the sign of the cross over his chest.

  “Okay, Ghost. Stay low, and keep on me,” Beckham whispered. “We guard Garcia while he plants the bomb. Then we deploy our R49 grenades and seal the chamber behind us.”

  No other orders were needed. Every member of the team knew exactly what needed to be done. One by one, they followed Beckham through the gap in the blast doors.

  The wide gashes in the metal and the click-clack of joints didn’t deter him. After he ensured the entry was clear, he entered the chamber on the west side and bolted for the cover of a forklift.

  The room was larger than it had appeared in the video, but everything was right where it was supposed to be. Blocks of hundreds of orange barrels rose toward the ceiling. Crates full of food and medical supplies were stacked beyond those, and row after row of shelves lined the center of the room. He couldn’t see the pool of filthy water or decomposing bodies, but he could see the wall where the juveniles kept their human food. The top was a lumpy spider web. Arms and legs protruded from the white goo.

  Beckham was glad he had a gas mask.

  It’s almost over, Reed. This nightmare is almost over.

  He continued at a crouch, keeping as low and close to the barrels as he could. When he reached the edge, he stopped and peered around the corner. The coast was clear. He was running for the next set when the concrete began to rumble under Beckham’s boots. He ducked behind a forklift, holding the air in his chest as a group of juveniles walked on all fours across the floor in front of the machine.

  They tilted their heads every few feet, stopping to listen with pointy ears. The largest beast was the size of a rhino. It sniffed at the air with a nose encased in armor. Beckham pulled back to hide behind the forklift, slowl
y letting out his breath.

  Mom, I sure hope you’re looking over me right now.

  He rubbed the outside of his vest pocket containing her picture as he waited. The thud of clawed hands and feet grew faint. The monsters were moving on.

  Beckham checked with a quick glance. The curved back of the final beast vanished around a corner. When they were gone, he darted toward a mountain of boxes. Apollo, Fitz, Rico, Garcia, and Horn followed him.

  They remained there for several seconds.

  Command had made it very clear: deploy the R49 grenades near the wall of human prisoners and plant the bomb there. Beckham was going to make sure he followed those orders. He pointed to the next crate of boxes, gazed around the corner, then took off running.

  Team Ghost continued moving across the room with a precision that reminded Beckham of the old days when his only job was to sneak in and out of places. But those memories seemed so long ago. Most of those recon missions were against untrained enemies with obsolete weapons—not Variants and juveniles that had evolved into the perfect predators.

  Beckham bolted toward a row of crates he remembered from the video. They were the same boxes the Navy SEALs had hidden behind when they documented the lair. Those men had made it out of here, and Beckham was starting to think Ghost might, too.

  Once he was at the crates, he would be able to see the entire north end of the room, including the wall of human prisoners and the pool of crimson water. The grotesque image from the video footage entered his mind the same moment a shadow crossed his path.

  There wasn’t enough time to take cover. He glanced to the left at nothing but rows of shelves. It took him two full strides to pass through the length of the shadow. That’s when he realized it was coming from above him.

  Beckham didn’t have a chance to react as a juvenile dropped from the ceiling and landed on Rico. A guttural crack sounded, bones shattering. She let out a strangled howl.

  The chatter of suppressed gunfire sounded as Beckham whirled with his M4. Fitz and Horn were already firing on the massive juvenile. Rico’s right leg was twisted underneath her like a pretzel. Saliva cascaded from the beast’s open mouth, leaving a slimy trail on Rico’s body.